Vox Populi
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Michael Simms: Three Young Poets Drinking All Night In the Cemetery of the Black Angel, Iowa City, 1977
As if we could carry away the urn
of grief long dead parents felt for their child
lost to diphtheria, typhus, pox or pure accident
of snapped neck, bruised heart, cracked skull
dropped, tossed, spiraling through darkness
to land here as we ourselves landed here, drunk
bewildered beside the black angel
a tall white column with a spiral of stone roses
and a name I mistook for my own. It seemed
I died at the age of three in 1879.
I turned to tell my buddies,
but they were swigging and laughing.
Frank said he needed to piss and stumbled off to the far edge
of the cemetery where it dropped off, sloping down
to the street that led to the river.
The other guy whose name I no longer remember
stood beneath the black angel, swaying.
His face emptied and became
childlike, as if he’d returned to a time before
cynicism, before this profane joking
that sustained us.
Then we walked home through the long shadows
of the dawn, and birds began singing
softly at first, then louder
~~~
Copyright 2026 Michael Simms. First published in Live Encounters.
~~~
~~~
Michael Simms is an American poet, novelist and publisher. He is the Founding Editor of Autumn House Press and Vox Populi Sphere; and the author of five collections of poetry, six speculative novels and a textbook about poetry. His poems have been published in Poetry (Chicago), Scientific American, Plume and Poem-a-day (Academy of American Poets). Simms grew up in the cowboy culture of Texas, but since 1987, he has lived with his wife, the philosopher Eva-Maria Simms, in the historic neighborhood of Mt Washington which overlooks the three rivers of Pittsburgh. Simms has won awards for his environmental activism, and in 2014, Simms was awarded a Certificate of Recognition from the Pennsylvania Legislature for his service to the arts.
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Well done, Michael, and subtle and moving.
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You had me at those first 2 stanzas! Such an interesting poem — especially love the penultimate stanza.
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Thank you!
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This is such a wonderful poem. Evocative. It brought me back to my own days as a young poet living in the East Village with other writers and artists, drinking late into the night, discussing poetry or art or arguing over whose version of La Vallee Des Cloches was better: Horowitz or Richter. Thank you for the beauty of your poetry and how it conjures worlds and memories.
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Thank you so much, Mike!
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Oh my goddesses, I love this so much, Michael! And I will use it as a luminous touch stone for dropping, psychologically, emotionally, physically even, into my writing centered on my great grandmother and her haunting worlds of late 19th century London, the losses & light incurred there. Thank you.
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Thank you, Michelle. Very generous of you to say so.
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gorgeous language , and so much under the surface, vibrating…
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Thanks, Jennifer! Michael Simms
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The whole poem is taut, felt, necessary. I particularly like these lines:
His face emptied and became
childlike, as if he’d returned to a time before
cynicism, before this profane joking
that sustained us.
But there is no piece of the poem that could have been left out.
As someone who was once married to an alcoholic, and who drank far too much herself, I feel this poem.
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Thanks, Penelope. I’ve been sober over 40 years now. I look back at my youth with bafflement bordering on disgust. But at least I got a few poems out of my wastrel years.
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I haven’t been in a cemetery, but singing Finnish (!) national songs to the statues in the centre of Helsinki – still under the influence – at 8.00 on a still somewhat wintry April morning. I was 17. And then “Then we walked home through the long shadows of the dawn, and birds began singing softly at first, then louder.” What a wonderful poem, Michael. So well done!
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Thanks, Rose Mary. Love your missives.
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I love the significance of very simple, necessary things – long shadows of the dawn, birdsong starting softly, then growing louder. How important that feels, especially when ending the poem. Everything in this poem feels important, moving and real.
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Thank you, Noelle!
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How evocative. It brought back a couple of memories, as well as allowing me to marvel at your poetic skills again, Michael.
First, when visiting Taos, New Mexico, I “stumbled” on the grave of Kit Carson, where each year on his birthday, the Native American men from the pueblo piss on his grave.
Secondly, I had a friend who travelled to Sligo Ireland, to visit the haunts of W.B. Yeats. She told me she bought a bottle of Irish whisky and drank it one night, passing out on Yeats’s grave for inspiration. I asked her if Yeats spoke to her that night? She said, “no, but I will always remember him for the worst headache of my life.”
One favorite book is set in a cemetery: Lincoln in the Bardo by Saunders.
Glad you made it out alive.
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So am I, Jim. So am I. Michael
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I was young and drunk a few times, none of which I remember fondly, thanks for letting me tag along to a happy memory.
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As happy as I could be in those days and nights.
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Oh lost! Look Homeward, Angel.
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The angel is stone and her gaze far away.
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This is terrific:” “a time before/ cynicism” and those birds!
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Thanks, Marty. It took a while to grow into cynicism and even longer to grow out of it.
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I’ve not been a young drunk male poet in this lifetime, but I resonate with the evocative nature of cemeteries, and something about the imagery in that last stanza felt very real to me. Thanks Michael
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Thanks, Jan. I was a young drunk poet for a long time. I’m glad I woke from that life.
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One of those memories of youth that lodge in the heart and make us, mysteriously, who we become. Beautifully evoked. Well-done. Charles ________________________________
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Thanks, Charles.
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Oh, Mike, this is more than merely resonant for me. Bravo!
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Thanks, Syd.
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